


The Enemy Of My Enemy Is My Pack

by thisisonyouprincess (wordsandstars)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The 100 (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, I have No Excuse, Let's see how this goes, McCall Pack, Set in the 100 universe, and am not sure of all I'm doing and including, bear with me on the tags for this I'm still working on this, the summary is shit I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsandstars/pseuds/thisisonyouprincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not only are there Reapers and Grounders on Earth, there are werewolves. Fortunately, they're on the side of the hundred. And right now, Scott McCall's pack's main goal?</p><p>To break them out of Mount Weather.</p><p>And to, you know, keep what's left of them alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> God, I don't know how this is going to go. But I wanted to do a Teen Wolf / The 100 crossover, ever since [Katie](http://elizaataylor.tumblr.com/) brought it up, so here we go! Hope it's going to go well...

Clarke’s been in Mount Weather’s Quarantine Ward for three months. She’s used to the scientists who stick needles in the by-now-sore skin of her forearms and wrists and the bends of her elbows, who spend their time in her room writing things on clipboards and treating her like a science experiment and little else. She’s used to the military officers who come in and sit on the couch while she sits on the bed and ask her question after question. She doesn’t know if they ask the others too, or if they’ve figured out she’s their group’s leader—one of them, the voice in her head says, which is apparently still in denial over Bellamy—and have decided to come directly to the source. She rarely answers their seemingly endless questions, countering with questions of her own, like ‘Are my people safe?’ ‘How long are you keeping us for?’ ‘Are you ever going to let us leave?’ ‘Can I have my clothes back?’

They always tell her she can ‘know all of that in due time’.

It’s been three months. She doesn’t know if that time will ever come. But she’s used to it.

What she’s not used to, though, is Allison Argent.

The girl comes in one of the days while Clarke has her wrists held down to the bed with metal handcuffs and an I.V. in her arm (they clearly weren’t too keen on her pulling it out the first time). She’s staring at the ceiling in silent anger when the keypad that unlocks her door starts beeping, and she looks over, expecting her most frequent visitor, a supposed doctor with skin that’s nearly as pale as Clarke’s hair. Instead, a young woman who looks to be her age comes in, closing the door quietly behind her. She smiles easily at Clarke, as if she isn’t tied down against her will in a room she’s in against her will.

Clarke takes the time that it takes this strange girl to bring one of the chairs in Clarke’s room over to her bedside to study her. She has a hard jawline, but overall beautiful features, and her face is framed with dark, curly hair, cut to her shoulders. She’s wearing it down, unlike any of the other woman that have come in, who all always have it up in tightly pulled back ponytails or buns. Also unlike everyone Clarke has seen so far, and Clarke herself, she’s not wearing all white. The sweater she’s wearing is, and the boots that are laced up to her knees, but under the sweater Clarke can see a black tank top, and her jeans are the same colour, the dark fabric sticking out in the brightness of the room.

“Hi,” she says, sitting down in the chair she’s dragged over and bringing her legs up to cross in the seat, knees sticking out under the arm rests on either side. She looks relaxed, but serious all the same. “I’m Allison.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Clarke replies, glancing first at the door and then the camera above it, feeling like this is some kind of joke she’s yet to hear the punchline of.

The girl, Allison, shrugs. “Figured you’d be bored as hell and wanting someone to talk to. I asked my dad if I could come in. He said it was fine, since you were, well,” she trails off, gesturing to the cuffs on Clarke’s wrists.

“And who’s your dad?” Clarke shoots back.

“Chris Argent,” Allison says, and Clarke immediately moves away as much as she can.

Chris Argent was one of the few people she had a name to go with the faces of. He frequented her cell often, typically two or three times weekly. He was always one of the military officers—the highest ranking one as well, in the groups that came, if she wasn’t mistaken—that came in, no matter the others that constantly switched out.

He was also the one who had first drugged her, barging into the room like a force of nature she wasn’t expecting, stuck a needle in her neck before she could so much as cry out. She’s woken up with an I.V. in her arm and cuffs around her wrists—her current position, but this had been two and a half months previous, although by no means had been the last time it had happened.

Allison winces slightly at her reaction, but doesn’t seem overly surprised. “I’m sorry for what he’s done to you,” she says, quietly enough that if there’s a microphone on that camera, Clarke doubts it picked it up.

Which was likely her point.

“Why?” Clarke says.

Allison presses her lips together, looking away briefly. “He’s been training me to join our military force since I was fifteen,” she tells Clarke. “I know what he’s capable of.”

Some of Clarke’s weariness melts away. “I can relate to parental issues,” she says, ticking an eyebrow up.

Allison looks up at her, a smile pulling at one side of her mouth, quirking it up slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clarke replies. “But, no offence, I’m not about to elaborate. How am I supposed to know this isn’t some trick of theirs,” already, she’s separating Allison from the rest of the Mountain Men—she’s not stupid, she can connect dots, she knows who she’s being held by—but she’s ignoring that for now, “to get information about me?”

Allison purses her lips, and for a second, just a fleeting second, her face falls. Then, she shrugs, and stands. “It’s not,” she says, grabbing Clarke’s hand and slipping something into it before letting go. “But I guess I’m going to have wait for you to figure that out.”

She leaves the room without another word. Clarke runs her fingers over what’s in her hand, and only when she feels scratched glass does she realize Allison gave her her father’s watch.

She smiles for the first time in three months, and allows herself to trust Allison Argent a little.

 

***

 

“Dude,” Stiles says, opening his eyes to glare at Bellamy. “How long are you going to keep doing that?”

Bellamy stops for long enough to fix him with a stare that’s venom enough to, dare he say it, rival with one of Lydia’s best, and then goes back to pacing. Stiles groans quietly.

“Let him be,” Scott says from beside him. They’re set up in a clearing, beside the river that once was the only thing standing between the hundred delinquents and Mount Weather, before Grounders and real survival came into play. The tent they’re inside has a cot, which Stiles, Scott and Lydia, are all currently on. Scott and Lydia are sitting on opposite ends, Stiles laying between them with his feet tucked behind Scott’s back and his head in Lydia’s lap, her hand occasionally passing through his hair. Finn’s sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree that’s outside of their tent, causing the fabric of it to pull taut behind and around him. Bellamy is pacing in the little floor space they have, and Stiles is making bets with himself on how long it’ll be before he tries to go outside. Which he can’t do, not until everyone else comes back from their various scouting trips to make sure they’re in the clear for Mountain Men tonight. “He’s agitated.”

“And you aren’t?” Stiles retorts, flicking his eyes to the phone Scott is turning, over and over again—Stiles likes it far better than the pacing—in his hands.

“I’m sure they’re both fine,” Lydia says, which makes Scott let out a long breath and smile a little at Lydia, and Bellamy to just glare at her too.

The phone ringing, even on its lowest volume, startles them all. Stiles doesn’t miss the way Scott’s fingers shake a little as he swipes them across the screen to answer and hits the ‘speaker’ button.

“I’m fine,” Allison says before anyone can say anything, and Scott’s next breath is a little easier, a little fuller, “and so is Clarke,” she adds, which makes Bellamy stop, and sit down in front of Scott.

“I mean,” she continues, “she’s not happy, by any means, and she hasn’t exactly been a team player, from what my dad’s told me and what I saw. She didn’t tell me shit, hasn’t told anyone else anything either, not even my dad.”

Lydia looks at Bellamy. “She must be pretty tough, then,” and something that might be a smile in better circumstances flashes across her face.

“I want to figure out what they’re giving her,” Allison says, voice slightly muffled like she’s chewing at her nails, “so I know if there’s gonna be any trouble later, but I don’t want to ask Dad, and I couldn’t read the I.V. bag.”

“Clarke might know if you read it to her,” Finn speaks up. “Her mom was a doctor on the Ark, and I know she’s had medical training too.”

“Got it,” Allison says. “And I gave her that watch, like you told me to, Bellamy. Hopefully it helps her trust me.”

“It will,” Finn cuts in again, before Bellamy can say anything. “She loves that, it was probably killing her to not have it.”

“How are we going to convince her that you two are here with us, though?” Scott asks, looking at Finn and Bellamy.

“You could tell her we forgive her for closing the drop ship,” Finn suggests.

Lydia shakes her head, and Allison makes a disagreeing noise. “That explosion was huge, everyone saw it,” Stiles explains to Finn. “If you want to convince her, try something less conspicuous. Like something only she would know. An inside joke or something.”

“Tell her we forgive her,” Bellamy starts, speaking for the first time since the call started and for the day, really—he hasn't spoken much at all the whole time they've been with the pack—and the tent goes silent around him, “because leaders do what they think is right, and I know that was what she was doing.”

“Got it,” Allison says, voice softer. “I have to go,” she says a moment later, back to her normal tone. “Mom will be back soon. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you guys. Love you Scott.”

“Love you too,” Scott replies, and then she’s gone.

Bellamy gets up from his spot on the floor and leaves the tent without a word.

“Let him go,” Stiles says, when Finn starts to get up. “The others will probably be back soon, and I’m sure he can take care of himself anyways.”


	2. Chapter 2

 A week and a half after Allison’s first meeting with Clarke—and the three after that—she thinks she’s finally getting somewhere in the trust department with her. She has another week before their planned breakout day for what remains of the hundred, and she’s sure that by then, Bellamy’s words won’t be needed for trust, but for motivation.

Of course, the fact that everything seems to going swimmingly is probably why it all falls apart.

Allison is nearly to Clarke’s door—it’s another one of her I.V. / tied-down-to-bed days, and even if Clarke won’t admit it, Allison knows she enjoys her company—when she hears banging from down the hall. Quickening her steps, she sees the boy, Monty, maybe, who’s across the hall from Clarke, repeatedly hitting the glass window on his door. He’s yelling too, but the sound isn’t as loud as his fists make, so that’s drowned out by the door’s thick metal. Still, it’s concerning to say the least.

Allison whips around to look into Clarke’s room, and her heart stops.

She doesn’t recognize the guard, or at least not enough to name him, but what she does know is that he’s currently holding Clarke up the wall by her neck. Clarke’s own hands are there too, trying to pull his off, but they’re grappling uselessly, and the kicks of her feet are weakening even as Allison watches.

Her fingers shake as she frantically hits the keypad, badly enough that she has to put in Clarke’s code twice before the door opens.

The sound of the door opening by is enough to shock the guard to drop Clarke. She lands on her hands and knees, and spends approximately three seconds coughing and choking on air before she acts.

Faster than Allison, and certainly faster than the guard, Clarke throws her arm out into a wide arc, elbow and wrist locked, knocking his feet from under him. Allison stares, wide eyed, as Clarke crawls on top of him and presses her thumbs into his windpipe, reversing their positions from seconds previous. Clarke kicks at his hands when they come up, trying to get her off, all the while keeping her chokehold.

He goes unconscious within a minute, and when Clarke doesn’t move her hands until well after that, Allison knows he’s dead.

When Clarke’s sure, too, she sucks in a breath, heavy and loud in the silence that’s enveloped the room. The eyes that she looks up at Allison with are hard and cold, with fear and wariness hidden behind determination.

“I’m getting out of here, today,” Clarke says, and her voice doesn’t shake. “And my people are coming with me. Are you going to stop me?”

Allison shakes her head, so fast it almost hurts. It helps to wake up her senses. “No,” she says. “I’m going to help you.”

Clarke nods, like she was expecting this. “Alright. How?”

In lieu of a response, Allison reaches into her pocket for her phone, calling Scott. It’s Lydia who answers though, with a sharp, “Is everything okay?”

“Not in the slightest,” Allison says honestly, cursing under her breath as she watches Clarke put a hand to the back of her head, only to bring it back with crimson staining her fingers.

“What happened?” Bellamy’s voice, sharper than Lydia’s, and angrier, too.

“We’re moving up our timeframe,” Allison replies, walking forward and offering Clarke a hand up, who takes it. She gives one final look to the dead guard, a man she just killed, and leaves the room. Allison follows her, finds her with her hand pressed against the glass of Monty’s window, with Monty’s hand up to match. She wonders briefly about the closeness of this group, wonders if it’s anything like her and her pack.

“Fuck,” Lydia curses, pulling Allison out of her thoughts and making her lips turn up at the edges. Lydia’s swearing bouts were few and far between, but never pretty. “We’re leaving now.” And the line goes dead.

Clarke turns to Allison as she puts the phone away again. “So what do we do?” she asks. Bruises are already starting to turn up on her neck, across her windpipe and down, and her voice is scratchy, but Allison knows how strong Clarke is. Knows Clarke would kill her—maybe too strong words, now—if Allison went easy on her.

So she doesn’t.

“My pack are coming,” Allison says, not bothering on choosing different words. Clarke’s going to have to get used to werewolves damn fast once they’re out of here. “They’re going to break us all out. We need to be ready when they get here, with as little guards for them to have to fight as possible. The ideal is that the only thing they’re going to have to do is open the doors of the cells and the Mountain, and make sure no one follows us.”

Clarke nods. “Alright then.”

She lets her hand linger on the glass a moment longer, and then she’s following Allison down the hallway. She passes more and more closed doors, some with windows displaying empty rooms but others with windows showing the faces of her people, eager and ready to fight. She sees Raven in one, and they lock eyes for a moment before Clarke’s past her. The knowledge that Raven is not only alive but apparently able to stand nearly knocks the wind out of her; she feels dizzy with relief.

Or maybe blood loss.

 The last room in the hallway doesn’t have the usual setup Clarke’s seen, but instead has all the clothing and weapons that her people were sent down here with, or have made for themselves since.

“Grab what’s yours,” Allison says, once she’s unlocked the door. “Once we’ve freed the others we’ll get them in here too.”

Clarke nods, stepping into the room. Her clothes are next to Raven’s, the red leather sticking out like the most welcome sore thumb Clarke has ever encountered. She changed quickly, not caring at all about Allison in the doorway. She feels at home in her clothes, even if they are as dirty as ever, and feels a sick sort of happiness when she kicks away the white shirt and pants she woke up here in.

As for weapons, she grabs the knife she started carrying sometime after Finn was stabbed—her heart hurts thinking about him, burned to death by her order—and sees Bellamy’s hatchet hanging on the wall near it. An ache, deeper than that at the thought of Finn, does through her. It made it here, somehow, but its owner did not.

She takes it gingerly, wraps her fingers around it like a lifeline. Looks up at Allison with unshed tears in her eyes. “Let’s go.”

Guards have rushed into the hallway in their absence. All the kids in Clarke’s line of sight are at their doors, yelling and banging at the windows, trying to agitate and confuse them. Clarke’s heart swells with pride for all of them, even through the fresh pain the thought of Bellamy and Finn bring to mind.

Clarke turns back to Allison in time to see the other girl leaning down to pull twin daggers with rings on the handles out of ankle holsters, twirling them into position in her grip. “I’ll be back,” she says, voice hard as steel. “Start fighting.” Without another word, she spins, fighting the opposite way they’ve come, slicing as she goes, a deadly flash of black amidst pure white.

Without knowing if Allison is coming back or not, Clarke puts her back to the wall and brandishes Bellamy’s hatchet in one hand and her knife in the other. She doesn’t have a lot of fighting experience, but she has enough, and her own common sense, to keep her alive.

One guard punches her clean across the face, sending her back into the wall, and she cries out when the back of her head hits it. Blood was trickling down her neck before, and now it increases in pace, and in pain. She grits her teeth and moves on, however; there are bigger issues here.

She’s put roughly twenty guards on the floor, passed out or otherwise, before one manages to get behind her and take her down. The hatchet goes skittering across the floor, and another guard quickly steps on the wrist of the hand still tightly gripping the knife. She yells, but he doesn’t stop, and a sickening crack drowns out her next cry.

One of the guards says something to her, but all she hears is his snarling tone, not his words. They’re drowned out by the solid pain of getting kicked repeatedly in the gut. She curls inwards, pathetically, but it doesn’t put a stop to it. Each kick sends her back, inch by inch, until her head is hitting the wall behind her with each one.

She closes her eyes, breathes through her nose.

Hears the solid _thunk_ of bodies hitting the ground around her. Feels the kicks slow, then stop. She opens her eyes.

Allison is standing some feet down the hallway, walking quickly towards her. As she moves, she’s loading a bow with arrows from the quiver on her back, shooting them nearly as fast as she’s stringing them.

Clarke, breathing hard and painfully, spits a mouthful of blood onto the ground next to the face of a guard who’s groaning in pain with an arrow in his shoulder. She stands on shaking legs, uses the wall behind her for support. Lets her eyes slide shut again.

Allison doesn’t stop shooting, Clarke can hear each time an arrow is released, but she says in a tone softer than Clarke would expect from someone currently shooting people she grew up likely trusting her life with, “Clarke? Are you alright?”

“Sure,” she replies, even as she awkwardly breathes in short, painful breaths. She pushes off the wall, and a wave of dizziness sweeps through her. She doesn’t even notice all the doors have opened around her until there’s people rushing around her, and she opens her eyes in time to see Miller grab her arm and sling it over his shoulders, supporting most of her weight.

“You okay?” he asks, and she idly wonders if the blood running down her head and back of her neck is obvious, or if her hair is hiding it.

“Not really,” she admits, because this is Miller, her and Bellamy’s second in command. He was one of the people Bellamy trusted the most, third to only herself and Octavia, and if doesn’t trust him the most, now, she thinks she can’t trust anyone. “I’ll be better once we get out of here.”

“Clarke!” Multiple people are yelling her name, along with the names of others, calling out for friends they’ve been separated by. It makes her even dizzier, and she clings to Miller, and then Raven, who comes up next to her in silence and tucks herself under Clarke’s other arm, taking and supporting what’s left of Clarke’s weight. Clarke grits her teeth when Raven moves her broken wrist—obvious to Clarke but not to Raven—but doesn’t say a word.

Allison slips in front of her, eyes flickering to Raven and Miller each once with concern before settling on Clarke. “This means my pack is close. We need to go. _Now_.”

Clarke nods, deciding not to ask about Allison’s choice of words right about now. Slowly, she takes her arm back from Miller, supports some of her own weight while still leaning somewhat on Raven. “Start gathering people up,” she tells him. “Find Jasper, Monty, Harper, tell them to do the same.” She falters, turns back to Allison. “Where are we heading?”

“First to where all your stuff is, and then to the outside walls. I’ll get you there. It’s west.” She points behind her, and Clarke nods, turns back to Miller.

“Tell them to move quickly.”

Miller nods, squeezing her arm once before disappearing into the crowd, which within seconds starts moving down the hallway. Clarke allows herself a small sigh of relief.

“Come on,” she tells Raven, starting forwards. Raven follows, setting the pace so Clarke doesn’t hurt herself. “Are you okay?” Clarke asks her.

Raven scoffs. “You’re the one who looks like hell, Clarke, don’t ask about me.” She looks briefly around the hallway. “This place is complete hell, no doubt about that, but they got that bullet out of my spine, I think. I can walk, is all I know, and it doesn’t hurt. What about you?”

“I’ll be okay,” Clarke promises. She hesitates, falters on her next words, “Raven, about Finn…”

Raven shakes her head, pain flashing across her face. They make it to the room full of their belongings, where the rest of the delinquents are, but Raven just leans against the wall, lets Clarke keep leaning on her. “Don’t. I asked about him, the one time those military officers came into my room. They told me he was outside the dropship, that they’d witnessed the whole thing. That they were sure you’d closed the door.”

Clarke’s eyes fill with tears, and she chokes out, “I’m so sorry, Raven.”

Raven shakes her head again, pulling Clarke into a hug. For which of their benefits, Clarke isn’t sure. “I don’t blame you,” she says, voice rough. “It wasn’t your fault. He made his choice.”

Clarke nods. Raven pulls away to go get her things, and Clarke is only alone for a second before Jasper comes out, slinging his gun over his head and onto his back. It’s doubtful there’s any bullets in it, but Clarke suspects it’s a comfort to have anyways. When he sees her, leaning against the wall for support and obviously in bad shape, he rushes towards her. She’s glad for the hug that he envelopes her in, even if it hurts her aching ribs.

“There’s only 48 of us here,” Jasper says into her hair. “I counted.” A beat, a long, shaky breath, and then, “Is it out fault? Are all of them dead because of us? Is _Bellamy_ dead because of us?”

A wave of sickening nausea runs through her at the remembrance that it wasn’t Raven who closed set off those rockets, but Jasper, and his guilt has to be has bad as hers has been, for the past months.

She grips him tighter. “No, Jasper, it wasn’t your fault,” she tells him. “It wasn’t your fault at all.”

He relaxes a little, even as she grows stiffer. She’ll take this guilt, for him. Add his onto hers. God knows the burden on her shoulders is already large enough that this will barely affect her, in comparison to the rest.

She’s the one to break the hug, too, and Jasper only startles for a moment before smiling at her. She smiles back, and then there’s what’s left of the hundred—the 48—coming back into the hallway, again, and Raven’s back at her side, helping her to start walking again when Allison, from somewhere in front of Clarke and likely the crowd as well, yells, “This way!”

Jasper falls in step just in front of her, and shortly, Monty joins him. He turns back without stopping, smiles weakly at Clarke and reaches back to hand her the previously dropped hatchet.

“I found it, on the ground,” he explains. “I haven’t seen Bellamy, and I know he wasn’t in the drop ship, so,” he trails off, but Clarke knows where he was heading, so she nods.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and he nods.

Evidently, the brunt of the guards stationed in whatever part of the Mountain they’ve been held in were in that hallway, and taken out by either Allison and her arrows and Clarke and her sheer force of will, because for a while no one stops them as they walk. It’s after Clarke sees daylight up ahead, and she’s been slowly making her up to the front of their little parade that she hears the commotion, and the people ahead of her stop. She hears Allison’s voice, along with voices she doesn’t recognize.

The crowd parts for her effortlessly, and she breaks into the mostly empty space between the 48 and the outside door, from which blinding light is pouring in. What likely remains of the guard force down here is trying to block their escape, but Allison and who Clarke assumes to be her ‘pack’ are taking them down. Rather quickly.

The last guard falls within seconds of Clarke’s arrival to the front of the hall, and her eyes flick across unfamiliar faces, until finally they land on one familiar face. Bellamy’s.

A hallucination, her mind tells her.

How else could he be here? She killed him.

Why else would his eyes be glowing gold as he looked at her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long and I'm so sorry, but I have somewhat of a legit reason?  
> I left the teen wolf fandom a while ago, so for a pretty long time I was trying to figure out if I wanted to continue writing this or not, but then I decided that since I still have a heavy attachment to the TW characters, and that this is set in the 100 universe, I figured I owed whoever still wanted to read this.

**Author's Note:**

> How was it? let me know?
> 
> I'm over [here](http://guardianquil.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, for those of you who don't recognize my pen name as my old url. This fic is also over there, if you prefer that format.


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